‘I am so sorry, sir, I just need to pop you on hold for one second.’ She pushed the hold button and turned her attention to the man in front of her.
She smiled at him and joined her hands on the jotter. ‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting.’
This morning, despite her early start, all she’d done was apologise. They were short-staffed and each and every one of them was feeling the pinch. At that precise moment, Merrin should have been organising the staff rota for the next three weeks, writing a warning letter to the florist whose flower arrangements had been less than incredible for the third week running, and sending the new fabric samples for the re-covering of the vintage sofas in the reception area to Lionel’s wife, who dealt with such matters.
‘No worries. Can you recommend a good pizza delivery?’
‘A pi—’ Even saying the word within the confines of this high-end hotel with its award-winning haute cuisine and a wine list that she knew the sommelier anguished over, so keen was he to get the exact right pairings with the food, was difficult.
‘A pizza joint? Somewhere that can rustle me up a stuffed-crust Margarita with a generous drizzle of chilli oil? You know what it’s like when you are in a hotel, and all that truffle-infused whatnot and micro portions of grub leave you feeling a bit, meh.’ He shrugged.
‘And you want that right now? This morning?’ She glanced at the clock and hesitated to recommend the breakfast buffet that would be in full swing in less than fifteen minutes.
‘Yup. Jet lag. This is my night time.’ He grinned.
‘Yes, of course, let me find you a menu or at the very least a link to a website. Failing that, I will have the kitchen contact you directly and see what they can whip up. And I will have someone either bring it to your room or I will email you the link. Your room number, please?’
‘One oh eight.’
‘One oh eight. Consider it done.’ She smiled sweetly.
‘Thank you, and don’t let me keep you. I know you put that guy on hold.’ He winked at her and helped himself to a couple of the wrapped mints that sat on the desk in a natty glass bowl bearing the family crest.
‘Thank you.’ She immediately picked up the phone. ‘I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, sir . . . hello?’ But the line was dead. She felt the flare of guilt that she might at worst have lost a potential customer or at best offended one.
The front door opened and in walked a handsome man with dark hair and the gorgeous golden complexion that suggested he might be from the Mediterranean.
‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to Milbury Court. How can I help you?’
‘Hello!’ He beamed, his accent a London one and his manner friendly. ‘I don’t know if I should have used another entrance.’ He took in the grand reception. ‘I’m the new restaurant manager.’ He walked forward and held out his hand. ‘Miguel. Miguel Rochas.’
Merrin shook it and felt a little shy, as the armour of her position slipped away and she was now aware of addressing a colleague.
‘I’m Merrin.’
‘Nice to meet you. Where’re you from?’
This a standard question in this industry, where a team was, more often than not, international.
‘Cornwall.’
‘I went to Cornwall once.’ He smiled at her.
‘Did you like it?’
‘No,’ he answered sharply, and she laughed loudly. It was a laugh that came without hesitation, a reminder of the old Merrin who used to act with glorious spontaneity, before each movement and sound that left her body had to travel through a filter of hurt and second-guessing. He was funny. ‘Of course I did! It was beautiful.’
‘It is.’ She pictured the view from the cobbles out over the cove and her heart danced at the image.
‘What about you?’
‘Kilburn, North London, not quite so beautiful, but it has its charms. People are often very disappointed when they meet me, given the name. I think they expect some charming Latino. I’m third-generation Brit – my grandad’s Spanish. You ever been to Spain?’
‘No,’ she answered sharply, and it was his turn to laugh. A couple walked through, making their way to breakfast. The woman’s hair was wet and they were holding hands.
Merrin stood up straight. ‘Good morning!’
‘Morning.’ They waved, barely noticing her, intently interested in each other. This she noted with a quiver of envy, despite her resolution not to allow love to cloud her judgement or damage her more than it already had.
‘Is Lionel expecting you? Would you like me to let him know you are here?’
‘Yes, please.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘I’m a bit nervous!’
She lifted the phone to call her boss and smiled at Miguel. ‘Don’t be, he’s lovely, and it’s a great place to work.’
‘What do you like to do? When you’re not working?’ he asked, his eyes not leaving hers.
In no particular order, I like fast cars, ice cream and tennis . . .
‘Not much. I like to watch a bit of TV and walk on the grass.’ She pressed the number and Lionel answered. ‘Lionel, I have Miguel Rochas in reception for you.’
‘Ah, splendid! He’s early. I’ll be down in a mo.’
‘He’s on his way.’ She put down the phone.
‘Thanks. Your hobbies are interesting,’ he said in mock seriousness. ‘What’s the best grass you’ve walked on and where?’
‘I didn’t say they were hobbies!’ she corrected. ‘And actually, I do have some favourite grass. It’s on a cliff edge, overlooking some pretty treacherous rocks.’ She felt the swell of emotion in her throat as she remembered her last climb up to Reunion Point.
‘I’m guessing it’s in Cornwall?’
‘You guess right.’ She liked his manner.
‘And great that you’re only two or three hours away. Do you get back there much?’
‘Erm . . .’ As she tried to figure how best to answer she felt the pull of the tide and the lure of the salty breeze as it came off the sea and lifted her hair and her spirits, the feel of the cobbles beneath her bare feet . . . followed immediately by the image of Lizzie Lick. ‘Not as often as I’d like.’
‘The joy of working in the hospitality industry – long hours, little sleep and your time is rarely your own.’
‘Yep.’
‘Ah, Miguel! Welcome to Milbury Court!’ Lionel shook his hand firmly and guided him away from the reception.
Merrin noted the way Miguel looked back over his shoulder at her before disappearing around the corner.
CHAPTER TEN
MERRIN
It was a year now since Merrin had arrived in Thornbury and yet there were still mornings when she woke and it took a second for her to remember where she was. The bed in her room was wide and comfortable, the carpet soft, the view lovely, and yet she would wake with a start, her breath coming quickly and tears trickling from her eyes.
It was almost instinctive, this mourning for the place she had lived her whole life. Especially on days like this when she had dreamt of Port Charles. She had been sitting on the embroidered cushion in the window seat, the sound of gulls filling the air while her dad whistled in the little bathroom at the back of the lean-to and her mum fried eggs on the range. It was revisiting this beloved normality in sleep that made waking hardest to bear. It wasn’t that life here in Thornbury was desperate or that she was sad all the time, far from it, but still, to survive the day she had to shake thoughts of the harbourside from her mind and forge on.